Checkmate to a Castled King
by LaSuen
Summary: John dies. Or at least everyone thinks he does. Reichenbach Falls in reverse roles. Sherlock/John bromance fic. Can be safely regarded as pre-slash for those who want. Complete.


**Title**: Checkmate To a Castled King (Мат на последней горизонтали)

**Author**: kate1521

**Translator**: lasuen

**Beta**: bitchinblackframedglasses

**Genre**: angst, bromance, hurt\comfort

**Characters**: Sherlock, John, and others

**Disclaimer**: We do not own anything.

**Summary**: John dies. Or at least everyone thinks he does. Reichenbach Falls in reverse roles.

**Note**: In chess, a checkmate to a castled king is also known as a back-rank checkmate, which is a checkmate delivered by a rook or queen along a back rank in which the mated king is unable to move up the board because the king is blocked by friendly pieces, usually pawns, on the second rank.

**T\N**: Heartful thanks to my lovely author kate1521. Reviews are adored!

Merry reading and a Happy New Year! :)

**Checkmate to a Castled King**

"Jo-ohn! What did you do to Mr. Fisbee's socks?"

A morning newspaper in his hands, John rolled his eyes as Sherlock's indignant voice reached him from the kitchen.

"I warned you one too many times against scattering substantial evidence all over the flat."

"John."

The detective stood in the doorway of the kitchen and looked extremely displeased, his features set in a severe frown.

"What now?" asked John, lowering the paper to his lap and glancing up at this friend, unruffled.

"What. Did. You. Do. To. Them."

John tried his best to maintain a serious expression until he could help it no longer and broke into a full-out smirk.

"I didn't lay as much as a finger on them. What on earth would I need some bloke's socks for?" John arched his eyebrow, almost amused, and continued, "While Mrs. Hudson, I heard just this morning, did nag a little over the underclothes strewn all over the place."

Much to John's delight, the world's best detective's cheekbones reddened noticeably at the remark.

"I never strew my underclothes," he growled before retreating into the kitchen.

John muffled a chuckle into his fist and then shouted in Sherlock's direction, "You could try her about these socks, you know. She hasn't left yet, so you have a fair chance of retrieving Mr. Fisbee's commandeered property."

A moment later, Sherlock reappeared on the threshold of the living room and, with an air of wounded exasperation, strode out of the flat, his bare feet padding loudly on the floor. John watched him with a quizzical glow in his eyes, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, when he heard a voice from downstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, have you by any chance withdrawn any socks from our flat?"

When Sherlock climbed back upstairs, a pair of socks victoriously clutched in his hands, John had already put his paper aside and was just about to leave for Tesco.

"Do I have time to make a grocery run before the results come up?" John asked, fully dressed, as he peeked into the kitchen. "We need bread for toasts, jam, rice, and we've almost run out of tea."

He didn't mention his eagerness to be present when Sherlock would bring the conceited jerk with a fake alibi down a peg or two. After all, Sherlock should know it full-well without any explicit reminders.

The detective, his hand hovering over a couple of beakers, briefly glanced up at John and sniffed, the side of his mouth quirking up.

"John, neither of us could survive in the absence of tea."

With these words, he inserted the beakers into the holder and pulled on the latex gloves, blithely snapping them over his forearms.

"I'll wait for you even if I'm through with the analysis before you're back. But only on condition that you make a dedicated effort to refrain from bickering with cash machines."

"Can't promise," John smirked, not a hint of embarrassment on his face.

He scooped his light jacket off the rear of the chair, skittered down the stairs and stepped out of the building and into the refreshing August morning air.

– 0 –

The liquid in the beaker altered its tint to cerulean blue. Sherlock brought it closer to his eyes for inspection, scrupulously assessing the colour of the attained mixture. He then curved his mouth into a satisfied half-smile, returned the beaker back to the holder and pulled off the latex gloves. After casting a cursory look at his wristwatch, he pursed his lips, slightly discontented, and went to his room for a change of clothes.

After getting fully dressed and prepared to go, Sherlock went out into the living room again, yet there was still no trace of John. He tapped an annoyed rhythm on the tabletop with his knuckles, then withdrew his mobile out of his pocket and pressed "1" on the speed dial. His eyebrows shot upwards as soon as he was met with an automatic reply machine which informed him that a person he was trying to reach was unavailable. The conundrum begged for a logical inference that John simply forgot to recharge his phone before leaving. Sherlock dropped his mobile back into the pocket, his brow furrowed in a displeased perplexity.

As a matter of fact, it wasn't in the habit of the always considerate doctor, so Sherlock decided to let the uncharacteristic omission pass this time. The detective plunged into his armchair, stretching long legs in front of himself and did a languid stock take of the living room. The single, at least remotely interesting object was John's newspaper he had left on the sofa (and why was Sherlock perpetually held accountable for the mess?), so the detective rose to his feet, picked up the paper, and moved to sit in John's chair instead.

When the newspaper quality time exhausted its purpose, Sherlock tossed it aside. His patience was wearing thin by that moment, reaching its summit when the doorbell rang out downstairs. Sherlock vengefully wished for it to be a new client with a fascinating, mind-boggling case he wouldn't share with his sluggish flatmate for all the tea in China. That would teach him a lesson all right, and he'd be much prompter the next time around.

Straightening his spine, Sherlock brought his palms together in a praying fashion, fingertips touching to his lips. There came another persistent ring of the bell, followed by Mrs. Hudson's footsteps. Shreds of greetings reached Sherlock's ears, and he recognised the visitor's voice as Lestrade's. Mrs. Hudson must have left very quickly after letting the DI inside, for the voices ceased and Lestrade's footfalls were the only sound in the otherwise silent building.

It seemed like Sherlock didn't have the slightest chance of keeping his promise to John to wait for him. Lestrade's coming here meant new circumstances surfaced to light and, most likely, they required Sherlock's immediate departure. With an annoyed twitching of his mouth, Sherlock glanced up at the Inspector, who loitered upon the doorstep.

Sherlock froze. Something was off about the DI. They gazed at each other for several long seconds before Lestrade spoke. His voice had a hollow and abrupt edge to it, and each word fell like an axe, cutting out a precipice between past and present.

"A bomb went off at Tesco. An act of terror, most likely. Twenty people injured. Other three, who were in the epicentre of the explosion, were instantly killed. I am—" Lestrade swallowed hard and, as though forcing his vocal cords to obey him, continued, avoiding to look at Sherlock. "He was my friend too."

The "was" gave Sherlock a start, and the muscle in his jaw tightened. His brain rejected this new fragment of reality. No. All of it could not be… All of it must be a mistake. Yarders constantly made mistakes.

"Who identified—?" There was an even and disembodied quality to Sherlock's voice, and it could very well seem his usual self if it weren't for the fact that the ending didn't want to leave his tongue. The unsaid word clung to it, in a death grip, and scratched at his suddenly dry throat.

Lestrade understood him at once.

"Wallet. His documents. As for the bodies, they— There's nothing to identify. Later we will do all the necessary identification tests." The last sentence was barely audible, and Lestrade sucked in a shuddering breath.

Sherlock, averting his eyes, sharply flung himself to his feet and whisked his mobile out of his pocket. He pressed "2" on the speed dial and brought the receiver to his ear.

"Explosion at Tesco," he announced as soon as the call went through, "I need the information on the victims."

"Sherlock, I'm already here and getting out of the car."

The detective hung up the phone, bypassed Lestrade on his way to the door and tore down the stairs. He swung the front door wide open and, without as much as a word of greeting, let Mycroft inside.

They stood face to face, and Sherlock glanced into his brother's eyes that somewhat glittered in the dim lighting of the hall. Mycroft never needed time to deliver the news. Yet now, for a sliver of a second, he faltered. Then, after taking a deep intake of breath, he spoke, his eyes still locked with Sherlock's.

"An act of terrorism. It had a demonstrative purpose, intended to draw our attention. One of the groups has already claimed the responsibility for it. John's presence was merely accidental. One hundred percent. It had nothing to do with your line of business; it was not an act of revenge, and it wasn't directed at him personally. It happened to be a dramatic set of circumstances. There were no… heroic actions on his part; he was just at the epicentre of the explosion. Three bodies are unidentifiable. Last time he appeared on the security camera it was three and a half minutes prior to the explosion. He was approaching the pay desk, and given the length of the queue and the speed it was moving with, the moment of the explosion must have placed him right at the epicentre. As soon as the DNA tests for identification come back—"

With an inscrutable expression on his face, Sherlock swirled around and silently started up the stairs. On his way he had to walk by Lestrade, who had descended halfway, and lightly brushed against his shoulder before vanishing behind the door.

Greg ran a hand down his face and looked at Mycroft.

"You staying with Sherlock? It's going to be… hard for him."

"I don't think he'll appreciate my company right now." Lestrade narrowed his eyes, and Mycroft added, sighing, "In all candour, I don't think he'll appreciate any company. But I shall look out for him, Inspector. You have a lot on your plate, don't let me deter you."

Lestrade looked as though he wanted to say something else, but after taking a second glance down at the official he only shook his head and left the flat without another word.

– 0 –

Having crossed the threshold of the living room, Sherlock quietly shut the door and slumped against it. Silence immediately engulfed the flat and was almost physically hurting his eardrums, so much that it nearly made him cover his ears with his palms. Sherlock drew a profound breath and exhaled in a huff, wishing to regain control over his body. He was failing miserably as the living room swayed before his eyes, iridescent blots swimming about and blocking his vision. Sherlock swivelled his head, then closed his eyes and reopened them again, trying to blink the blurriness away.

No. It could not be happening. It was a mistake, an idiotic, horrible mistake. John was a soldier. Yes, damn it, from time to time the life they led would turn out to be more dangerous than Afghan everyday routine, but John could not, could not die like this.

Sherlock clenched his fists and threw his head back, the nape of his neck thumping against the door. No. All that was happening was nothing but another one of those nightmares which haunted him during the exile and which tortured him for a while after his return. It was just a relapse; something must have triggered the bad memory, and his brain played a cruel trick on him. All he needed was just to wake up, to close his eyes and reopen them in the normal reality where John would give him a sleepy smile in the morning, where he would tell Sherlock that Lestrade called, and where they would start making breakfast together, and…

Sherlock bit on his lip so hard it almost started to bleed, and slowly slid down to the floor, his spine gliding along the surface of the door. He grabbed his legs with force, dropped his head onto his knees.

No. No. NO.

The air felt stifling and heavy all of a sudden; John was right, he should ventilate the flat better after conducting his experiments. The unbearable, stuffy atmosphere of the room made him feel dizzy; a bitter taste surged up in his throat, and his slipping consciousness was struck by the thought that he'd better take it to the bathroom, because if he threw up on the carpet, John would be mad.

No. John wouldn't be. He would never be mad anymore. John would never be angry with him anymore, or be glad, would never laugh, or frown, or sniff with annoyance, or scratch his eyebrow in embarrassment. John would never walk through this door again, would never sit in this armchair, would never…

In a sharp motion, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, willfully cutting the torrential train of thoughts in his head. He stood still for a beat, lost, bracing himself against the doorframe and waiting for the giddiness to lessen before he rushed to his room.

He lingered in the doorway, failing to recall what he was about to do. He thought it was vitally important to do at least something. With a lightning-like clarity, he realised why people could be so possessed by revenge. Thirst for revenge and measures to satisfy the craving would offer a blissful opportunity to take the edge off, to abstract from the reality of loss. It was intolerable to stay sitting in the flat and let the hopeless and dreadful emptiness spread all over his being. It was unbearable to come up with more and more things that would never happen. A muffled groan escaped his throat, and Sherlock vigorously shook his head, refusing to dwell on it.

No.

Spinning abruptly on his heels, Sherlock decisively strolled into the kitchen. He stopped there, bracing himself against the table, hunched and panting. Then he willed his eyes to look up and inspect the place; he needed to focus on something, anything. As though to spite him, his eyes kept clinging to things he'd rather not cling to at all: John's mug on the rack, a pan with residues of muscle tissue next to it, Sherlock's experiment for which John was so mad at him just yesterday. Apparently, he had mistaken it for Mrs. Hudson's goulash and had put it into the microwave to warm up. His ill-reasoned enterprise completely destroyed the experiment and he hadn't even deigned to apologise. Sherlock harshly squeezed his eyes tight, pressing his eyelids until it almost hurt, then fetched a profound breath and exhaled it fast. No. He would not start remembering. He would not start thinking about things that would never happen again.

Sherlock bit hard on the inner side of his lip as a salty taste pervaded his mouth; he pressed his teeth even more fiercely, wishing for the pain to drive away unwanted thoughts from his head. He reopened his eyes, consciously fixating them on the little corner of his chemistry world on the kitchen table. The field of his vision caught a phial with the bluish liquid. Sherlock immediately straightened his shoulders.

Fisbee's case. Slipped his mind entirely, unfinished.

In a fidgety, compulsive manner, Sherlock shoved his hand into his pocket and fished out his mobile. After finding the necessary number, he pushed the dial button.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice on the other end of the line was a mixture of puzzlement and concern. "You—You need anything?"

"Today's act of terrorism is not in the jurisdiction of your department," Sherlock announced in a stone-cold, emotionless tone.

"No, it's not, I under—"

"I can claim with all certainly that Crousword's alibi in Fisbee's case is false," Sherlock said, cutting the DI mid-sentence. "I'll be in Scotland Yard shortly. You in your office?"

"Erm… I—"

"Inspector, are you going to keep blathering or respond to my question?"

"Yes, in five minutes I'll be in, but—"

"Perfect."

Sherlock hung up. He stepped into the living room, picked up his coat and promptly shouldered his way into it. After winding his scarf around his neck in a habitual manner, Sherlock patted on his pockets to check their contents. In less than a minute, he left the flat and briskly ran down the stairs.

On his way outside, Sherlock had to silently skirt Mycroft, who was still loitering in the hall.

Mycroft watched his brother go before pulling out his phone.

– 0 –

The Yard was a swarming hive of activity, inviting Sherlock to merge with the bustling throng and maybe try to dissolve in it to the best of his abilities. Alas, it proved to be harder than he reckoned because on his way to Lestrade's office he caught himself involuntarily looking back over his shoulder several times. Each time he had to clench his pocketed hands into fists with determination.

At length, Sherlock entered Lestrade's office and immediately made a nauseated face. Next to the DI's desk stood Donovan, hovering over his shoulder as they studied together a batch of documents from an open folder in front of them.

At Sherlock's arrival, they tilted their heads up as if on cue and gave him a nearly identical look of sympathy. Sherlock had to consciously refrain from rolling his eyes at the two.

"Inspector, I've conducted a fabric analysis of Fisbee's socks for the purpose of establishing if it contains any extraneous matter," he started without further ado.

"Sherlock, wait—" Lestrade interrupted him, standing up.

"Inspector," Sherlock thrust his other hand into the depth of his coat pocket, his chin perking up just the tiniest bit as he forcefully resisted an all-encompassing urge to grit his teeth. "If you're going to deliver a socially-prescribed portion of condolences and take an unnecessary interest in my well-being, I'd rather cut straight to the point. You have an unsolved murder, and I presume it's much more important than sentiments."

Over the course of this tirade, Sherlock was busy looking fixedly into Lestrade's eyes and therefore missed as Sergeant Donovan's slowly widened and her face took on a red colour. She was prompt to draw attention to herself, pitching her voice uncharacteristically quiet, yet nonetheless distinct.

"Oh god, you're such a freak. I thought you had at least something human in you; after all, he seemed so sure of it. And you, turns out, actually couldn't care less."

"Donovan!" Lestrade snapped, turning to her.

"What, 'Donovan'?" Sally exclaimed, a glimmer of oncoming tears in her eyes. "Don't pretend you don't remember John and what condition he was in when this psycho jumped off the freaking roof! And now he… now he—" She threw a glare full of hatred in Sherlock's direction. "John's body is not even cold yet!"

"Will anything change when it is?" Sherlock inquired.

He didn't let the pain from the realisation that he was right crawl its way into his voice, nor did he let show the hatred he held towards this woman who was now making him admit the truth out loud. Anger flared up inside him like a struck match. Sherlock took a step backwards as Donovan recoiled from him, appalled.

"He doesn't care now. Or a month from now, or ten years from now – he won't care anyway! And if anyone believes I should demonstrate mourning over some socially approved period of time, that's absolutely none of my concern!"

Their glowering, spear-like eyes met before only a few seconds later Donovan's features softened, almost imperceptibly, and she shook her head, though just barely.

"Truth is, freak, that John didn't mourn for demonstration, nor did he mourn because he was supposed to. He simply mourned you. That's why I'm so pissed off at the way you act right now. Although, it would be stupid to expect anything different from someone like you."

She shook her head again and stormed off out of Lestrade's office, the door slamming loudly behind her.

Sherlock drew a steadying breath and glanced up at the DI, who awkwardly spread his arms in dismay.

"Sorry, she's just—"

But Sherlock, swallowing hard in an attempt to get rid of the lump which had lodged in his throat again, squinched up his face and waved off the apology with as much despise as he could muster.

"Right," he began in a tranquil tone of the voice, keeping his breathing measured and doing his utmost to fend off the teeming grey spots that assaulted his vision. "While analysing Fisbee's socks I have established the presence of a unique additive in the washing powder which, according to Crousword's testimony, he developed on his own. Not only does this fact point out to the falsity of his statement, but also reveals an allegedly absent motive. Apart from that, at the very least, this evidence enables you to get the warrant to search Crousword's flat. I would like to be of assistance as well, otherwise you might miss everything all over again."

– 0 –

The dark night blanketed the sky as Sherlock wended his way back home. Before climbing the stairs, he lingered in the hall for several minutes, watching a sliver of light shone out from beneath Mrs. Hudson's door. He curled his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms, and then unclenched them, with resolution, forcing himself to step up to his landlady's flat and knock on the door.

To tell her that John…. To tell her.

Sherlock worked his throat and wet his lips, nervous. He felt it was his duty to bring this news to Mrs. Hudson himself. John did not have it any easier when he had to do it, when he had to tell Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock's death. Now it was Sherlock's turn. It was his turn. His legs rooted to the floor. Sherlock even slightly leaned forward, yet could not bring himself to advance another step. To knock. To enter. To tell her.

Sherlock felt his throat closing; he helplessly shook his head before spinning abruptly on his heels and speeding up the staircase. He leapt two steps at a time and all but sprinted into the living room.

And froze to the spot as though colliding with an invisible wall. Lounging on the couch, his legs one over the other in a manner that spoke of languid repose, sat Mycroft. Sherlock straightened his spine and sent his brother a haughty glare.

"It was my impression that I made myself perfectly clear. You have passed onto me all the relevant information and now you can get back to your supposedly urgent state affairs."

Not the least perturbed by Sherlock's outburst, Mycroft nodded toward the tray on the coffee table with a neatly arranged set of teacups and a plateful of biscuits.

"Since the case is closed, it's an appropriate moment to have a snack and drink a mug of tea, wouldn't you agree?"

"My eyes must be deceiving me. You, on your own, without your ubiquitous assistant, managed to prepare tea?" Sherlock widened his eyes theatrically as his eyebrows shot upwards.

"The mere fact that I don't flaunt my talents doesn't mean I don't have any, Sherlock." Mycroft arched his eyebrow, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Then I'll leave you to the fruitful company of your clandestine skills," Sherlock snorted and was about to disappear behind the door of his bedroom when Mycroft leapt to his feet in an unprecedented display of dexterity and latched a firm hand onto the detective's forearm.

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock bestowed upon his brother a look brimful of icy malice.

"Oh, don't you tell me you've taken it into your head to enlist in the rows of comforters and consolers. Who else but you should be the first to know I don't need any of that!" he snarled and attempted to snatch his arm from the grasp, but Mycroft held him in place.

"Sherlock—"

"What? What do you want from me? Caring is not an advantage? I remember that, Mycroft, so you can save your breath. What is it, a brother's duty to offer support just to calm down our mother? In that case, you may rest assured: suicide, drugs and pathetic sobs on anyone's shoulders are not on my docket. And now that your conscience is clear, you may show yourself out!"

Mycroft stoically met his brother's withering glare and enunciated in an even voice:

"How ever odd it might seem to you, I actually understand the depth of your sorrow," said Mycroft with a light shake of his head as Sherlock opened his mouth to rejoin. "And yes, you're right, I know you don't require words of consolation because it's not the kind of sorrow they could help with."

Sherlock's tense shoulders relaxed just a touch; a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Only time, Sherlock. Only time and yourself. Nobody else can help you."

Sherlock sniffed his disdain before averting his eyes and saying, all the previous fervour dissipated:

"Mycroft, I forgot to mention that soul-saving conversations are of no interest to me either."

Mycroft gave a curt nod and let go of Sherlock's arm.

"Mrs. Hudson already knows. I told her."

A shudder trailed down his spine and Sherlock glanced up at his brother, almost challenging. However, Mycroft wasn't looking at him, instead observing the scenery behind the window. An acute and nearly scalding wave of gratitude rose up in Sherlock's chest. Mycroft did it for him. Mycroft took this burden upon himself so Sherlock wouldn't have to say it out loud, looking in the eyes of a person who loved John too.

A shallow breath escaped his lungs as Sherlock nodded weakly, well aware that Mycroft would notice the gesture. After a beat, the detective turned away and left, methodically closing the door of his bedroom behind him.

Several minutes later, Mycroft still stood in the midst of the living room, his hands plunged deep into his pockets and his head tilted. Then he scooped up the coat that lay on the back of the armchair, picked up his umbrella and went out.

When Mycroft reached the hall, he strode straight to Mrs. Hudson's door and knocked. The tear-strained landlady, a handkerchief grasped in her miniature hand, opened the door and let him inside.

"How is he holding up?" she asked.

Mycroft sighed.

"Exactly as he's supposed to."

Mrs. Hudson whimpered, almost inaudibly, and brought her handkerchief to her eyes.

"He'll get through; he just needs time," Mycroft said in a firm voice, not knowing who he was trying to comfort with these words, Mrs. Hudson or himself.

"Poor thing. What with this habit of his, keeping it all inside…" Mrs. Hudson shook her head, morosely.

"He'll get through," Mycroft reiterated. "He was getting through before John came into picture, and he will after."

"You really believe that before John he was succeeding?"

Mycroft averted his eyes and soon afterwards bade her a short goodbye since there was nothing else to talk about; asking Mrs. Hudson to look after Sherlock was redundant – she would do that without as much as a hint.

Shielding himself from the outer world behind the closed door of his bedroom, Sherlock dropped wearily on the bed. He drew his knees up to his chest, tucking his face into the pillow. A devastating sense of exhaustion filled him, and he could not bring himself to do anything. Apathetically, Sherlock marveled at the inconsistency of his own emotions: first, he felt an all-consuming urge to act, yet now there was utter indifference. Shutting his eyes, Sherlock dismissed the idea of getting to his feet, undressing and paying a visit to the bathroom to shower. He was drained of all strength.

He clutched at the legs he had drawn up to his chest, wishing more than anything to just curl into a tight ball and occupy as little space in this world as possible, not to touch the reality which brushed against him, and hurt him, and turned into a yet another memory. Right now, it was crucial not to remember anything, at all. Sherlock let out a ragged sigh; his jaw tightened. Memories, as though to spite him, wormed their perfidious way into his mind; and Sherlock could barely refrain from standing up and knocking his forehead against the wall – anything to get rid of them.

Sherlock was fully conscious that as soon as he lets them form into the images of the past, he would not be able to help himself. He would not be able to fend off the unrelenting current of bright pictures of their life, the life that so suddenly changed to the past tense. Right now, he urgently needed to put up a dam in his mind to divide the past and the present. Sherlock wasn't certain it would help much, that it wouldn't tumble down when he would arrive at another crime scene, when he would make breakfast, when he would sit in front of the fireplace, when he would stand still at the funeral. A hollow groan left his throat, and Sherlock straightened up in bed. Then, he rolled onto his back and brought his wrist to his face, shutting the vision.

John's funeral.

And there he was in his mind again. John standing by Sherlock's supposed tombstone, his erect spine, a firm line of his shoulders. Sherlock squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, willfully locking the memory away. Back then, John held his ground despite everything. John Watson could not be broken; he would be hunched under the weight of a new burden, but he would get used to it, would eventually square his shoulders and plough ahead. The mere thought of John's quiet strength of mind brought him respite, eased his breathing, and Sherlock couldn't help a bitter smile – John managed to make it better even after his death.

"I won't break either, John. I promise," a barely audible whisper fell from Sherlock's lips and faded into the emptiness of the darkened room. His jaw tightened as he tried to hold back the tears. Then, all of a sudden, he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow so that he wouldn't feel tears streaming down his cheeks, all against his will.

– 0 –

Time crawled by, and life evened out. Life was good at that. Even when the darkness around seemed thick and impenetrable, time would eventually lend a helping hand. Life didn't stop after John's death. Crimes were still committed in London, and Scotland Yard was still investigating them, and Sherlock continued to assist the police forces.

People always adjust to new circumstances.

Lestrade, when calling Sherlock up to a crime scene, had to get used to adopt singular grammatical forms. He had to get used to not shake his head while pushing an end-of-call button, to not close his eyes for a second, remembering what had once been and what would never be again.

Mrs. Hudson had to get used to not be surprised by only one pair of footsteps in the ungodly hours of mornings, stampeding down the stairs as Sherlock rushed to a new crime scene. She had to get accustomed to not use the word "boys" when she would think about cooking "something delicious" for the two of them. Now she tried to keep a stealthy eye on when and what Sherlock ate, and she honestly intended to remain unnoticed. Perhaps, she even succeeded since Sherlock never commented on it in any form, him being so eager to offer his input. She had to get used to not hearing a quiet singing of the violin; and, however odd it might seem, to get used to the absence of the violin concerts turned out to be almost as difficult as to get used to everything else combined.

And, as everyone else witnessed, Sherlock was getting used to it, too.

Lestrade would let out a relieved sigh every time Sherlock unchangeably accepted his offers to take part in the investigation and then held himself in his characteristic condescending manner, pointing out everything the DI and his team missed. Lestrade was glad that the detective, contrary to his expectations, didn't go asking for trouble and running under the bullets.

More precisely, now he seemed to be in a commendable collaboration with the arm of the law. He didn't withdraw relevant evidence and didn't rush headlong to detain suspects on his own. Over the course of the first three cases he took after John's death, there were awkward moments when Sherlock, after inspecting the dead body, would turn around abruptly, only to discover that there was no one to turn around to over his shoulder. And Lestrade would freeze on the spot, watching Sherlock with intensity as the detective, faltering a few seconds yet without the slightest trace of emotion in his face, started to take the team through his conclusions.

Lestrade sincerely wanted to support the detective, but how could it be done? Could it be a good idea to approach him and pat on the shoulder, ask how he was doing? It seemed a most ridiculous thing to do; with all his appearance, Sherlock demonstrated an utter lack of interest in similar gestures. Yet once, after putting a triumphant final point in one of the investigations, the DI finally plucked up his courage and stepped up to Sherlock. The detective, as though reading through his thoughts, threw him a look of warning, and ice-cold, piercing grey eyes all but speared Lestrade to the spot. Greg decided not to reopen the barely healed wound.

_After all,_ a thought of relief passed through his mind, _Sherlock remained his old self and continued his work. He will get through it; he just needs time._

Mrs. Hudson was just sighing with relief each time she was certain her boy ate regularly and often did so in her presence - although, she couldn't help sensing something ostentatious in this display, something akin to wordless declaration _"I'm fine. See with your own eyes that I'm fine."_ From time to time, as she was bringing a tea tray to the detective who lay on the sofa neck deep in brooding about a new case, and as she watched a warm smile ghost over his lips, she couldn't help wondering whether the smile was in fact meant for someone entirely different.

More than anything, she hoped to be mistaken. No doubt, Sherlock was putting up a very believable front. He hadn't fallen into depression walling himself up from the whole world and neither was he sitting in the living room staring with unseeing eyes at the ceiling and thinking back to the times irretrievably past. Instead, time and again, he was rushing to investigate yet another crime. And inwardly, she was quietly glad that the London's criminal world hadn't gone into untimely hibernation and kept on invariably supplying the young detective with new cases.

Only Mycroft, rifling through the footage of the security cameras, was pursing his lips. Sherlock just finished solving one of the cases that perplexed the whole Yard. The last record caught the minute when Sherlock talked to Lestrade pointing out the missing links of the chain leading to a murderer.

Finishing with the footage, Mycroft spent a couple of seconds staring into space and drumming his steepled fingers against his lips. Then, he stood from the desk and went out.

As Mrs. Hudson let Mycroft in, he offered her a brief greeting before heading straight upstairs.

Sherlock lounged listlessly on the sofa and tapped away at the laptop placed on his stomach. Mycroft took off his coat, painstakingly slung it over the rear of the armchair and neared the sofa. Sherlock persisted in ignoring his presence.

Mycroft thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and decided to leave out the greetings.

"Sherlock, you've got to stop this," he began in a firm voice, looking down at his brother.

"Stop what exactly?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow questioningly, his eyes still pinned to the screen of the laptop as his fingertips were flying over the keyboard.

"It's been two months, and you're standing still."

Sherlock's fingers froze above the keys for a cursory moment as he slowly tilted his head up to look at Mycroft.

"Don't you think it's none of your business?" Sherlock's voice acquired a dangerous note.

"You have to close that door—"

"I did," Sherlock cut him short mid-sentence, all ice.

"True," Mycroft conceded with a nod before adding, "But you sat at the threshold instead, and it seems like you're not going anywhere."

"What a fascinating allegory. Who wrote the speech? Give that person a promotion."

"Sherlock," Mycroft tilted his head to one side, "Everyone thinks you're all right, even more than that. But I can clearly see that you just shut your grief inside."

"Well, of course you can always clearly see everything," Sherlock snorted, his attention riveted back to the laptop.

"No, I'm just a tad more observant than others, and I know that the absence of emotional display doesn't signify the absence of emotions. And right now, your closedness works against you."

In reply, Sherlock simply huffed a disdainful breath. Mycroft let out a sigh and glanced at the smiley face on the wall.

Heavy silence reigned for a solid several minutes, interrupted only by a brisk thrumming of fingers on the keyboard. Sherlock was the first to speak up.

"What do you want from me?" Irritated, he pushed the laptop off his stomach and sat up on the sofa, swinging his legs to the floor. "I'm still doing my work, I help Lestrade and take up private investigations. I'm not paying daily visits to the cemetery, nor do I keep his photograph on my mantelpiece, and nor do I drink or take drugs. I'm certain I didn't even need to mention the latter since you must be monitoring this area with utmost thoroughness. I make sure to eat every day and I don't perform any life-threatening experiments. What else do you want from me?"

"As a matter of fact, you have never done any experiments ever since," Mycroft stated rather quietly.

"It barely means anything. I'm busy. I'm swamped with work at the moment."

"Which you take no interest in whatsoever."

"Don't I? What on earth would I be doing it for, then?"

With a slight lift of his eyebrows, Mycroft responded, albeit not directly.

"You mechanically solve any cases you're offered regardless of your interest or lack thereof. However, the process doesn't give you the slightest satisfaction; I saw the footage from the security cameras. It was one of Lestrade's cases, and you just rattled off your conclusions, and left. You couldn't care less."

"So what?"

"So, it ceased to be a puzzle game for you."

"John would be happy," Sherlock snorted, a curl of a smile on his lips.

"John would be horrified," Mycroft remarked coldly. "Because the crux of what's now happening could be expressed in one single phrase – pointless existence. Check yourself in the mirror – you look like a ghost brought back to life."

"God, so full of pathos, aren't you? Mycroft, your place is in a maudlin dramatic spectacle. Have you considered a professional growth?"

A muscle twitched in Mycroft's neck as though his perfectly knotted tie was strangling him.

"When it comes to pathos, you're unparalleled, my dear brother. Tell me, how much longer are you going to cry inconsolably?"

Sherlock's cheek gave a nervous tick, his eyes ablaze with simmering ferocity as he glared at Mycroft.

"I did not cry even once," he enunciated every syllable as though he was hammering nails, one by one.

"Well, maybe that's the core of the problem?" Mycroft hurried to ask as he ensconced himself on the sofa beside Sherlock. Immediately, the detective leapt to his feet.

"You know what, I've just showed unprecedented patience, sitting here and listening to your blather. I think I've had enough."

"John wouldn't like for you to stop living either," Mycroft said sharply, looking up at Sherlock. "That's one thing he would not like for sure. Back in his own time, he fought his way forward in the face of everything, and you're fully aware of what it cost him, yet he fought forward. Fighting and going ahead does not mean to forget or betray; and you perfectly understand it yourself."

"Below the belt, Mycroft," Sherlock breathed through clenched teeth.

"I'm not fighting with you. It just scares me to see my brother like that, remaining nothing but a shell. You're stuck at denial, Sherlock. You have to finally accept the fact that John is no longer here. He won't come back, and the life you had with him is over for good. There's only your life now."

As Mycroft spoke, Sherlock's complexion was becoming paler and paler, his fists clenching more tightly. Mycroft would be even glad if the argument burst into a full-out fight; Sherlock had to be plucked out of this stone-cold existence, he had to be driven to tears, had to vent off all the pent-up emotions. So Mycroft pushed on.

"Everything the two of you had is in the past now and won't be brought back; and you have to get through it and accept the fact of John's death. I can't believe you'd be so weak as to not be capable of going through this."

Mycroft levelled a look of defiance on his brother. Sherlock's fists slowly unclenched, and he took a step backwards.

"Go to hell, Mycroft. I live as I please, so don't go sticking your nose into my life." The detective's voice fell flat and chill, yet feverishly glittering eyes and tiny beads of sweat gathered above his upper lip gave him away treacherously.

"Great then," Mycroft replied in a frosty voice, levering himself up from the sofa as he was about to go; the conversation was clearly over for the day. He fully intended to continue his visits, since hoping that time would heal Sherlock naturally on its own was now becoming more and more dangerous; heart attacks happened to the young as well.

"Thing is, though," he went on, "I'm certain that when you claim to like this new life of yours, you're either lying to me, or to yourself."

With these words, he gave his brother a curt nod in lieu of a goodbye, turned around and quickly left, closing the door behind him.

As Mycroft went away, Sherlock dropped on the sofa, utterly spent and exhausted. He pressed his hand to his abdomen; a sharp twinge of pain shot through his stomach. It wasn't something new. To hell with everything. He didn't owe anyone anything, and much less did he need to prove anything to this pompous peacock. His stomach gave a painful lurch, and Sherlock hurriedly got up to go to the bathroom.

With a final shudder, head raised above the toilet bowl, Sherlock glumly glanced down at the black mass on its sides before tiredly pressing the wash down button. Well, no one could actually reproach him that without John he drove himself to a death of a burst stomach ulcer. He absolutely did not; he ate with forthright diligence, often even three meals a day; and neither did he attempt any of the moronic gestures like washing down a bottle of vinegar, or similar idiocies. The mere fact that he hadn't the slightest intention of visiting a doctor completely met the peculiarities of his character and habitual conduct, and was by no means associated with some pathetic nonsense of not wanting to live any longer, concocted by sentimental imbeciles.

Sherlock rinsed his mouth with tap water and, disgusted, quickly spat it into the sink. A beat later, he braced his arms against the counter and studied his mirror reflection. There was one thing Mycroft was right about; he looked undoubtedly appalling: paled, slightly sunken cheeks, even more sharpened cheekbones, black circles beneath his eyes. Sherlock grimaced at himself, then let go of the sink and headed back into the living room. He resumed his spot on the sofa, positioning his laptop back on his stomach. The computer radiated pleasant waves of warmth against the epigastric area and mitigated the pain, though just barely. Otherwise, it was too much of a distraction since he had two cases on his hands simultaneously, and there was not a moment to lose.

– 0 –

Throughout his journey home, Mycroft could think of nothing but his brother; those thoughts stole a significant part of his time, and it started to take its inevitable toll on his work. A specialist in analytics, he occasionally found himself unable to switch to business as he racked his brain in an attempt to figure out the way to help Sherlock through his loss. At the present moment, Mycroft saw no possibility to give his work a more thorough attention, for Sherlock was descending further and further into depression, and what was ever worse, everyone steadfastly ignored the reality. Everyone for the exception of Mycroft, which meant that help was unlikely to come from elsewhere.

The sound of a ringing phone brought Mycroft out of his pondering. Fishing it out of the pocket of his suit jacket, he glanced at the name of the caller. David Source. Mycroft frowned and halted for a few seconds to prepare for the conversation before responding.

"David, I'm listening."

"Good evening, Mycroft. With your permission, I'm going to go straight to business. After all, you and me are busy people."

"Exactly what I was going to suggest."

"Today it came to my notice that I've been denied access to the fund transfer in our inner accounts. I suppose it involved your direct participation?"

"I don't think it's something to discuss over the phone, David," Mycroft said, his lips set in a firm line. Truth to be told, he should have blocked the access long before but really was just too absorbed in Sherlock's problems.

"Agreed. I'm just about to have a walk in Regent's Park, would you like to join me?"

Mycroft almost laughed.

"I don't mind providing you with the reasons for such a drastic measure, but you may rest absolutely assured that I'm not doing it anywhere but in my own office."

"Too bad, Mr. Holmes, too bad." With a bored, disinterested expression on his face, Mycroft half-closed his eyes ready to listen to standard, off-the-book threats. "I have no qualms if our conversation is recorded by you. However, in your office we could be intercepted by unwelcome people who would deter you from accepting my proposition. And I'm afraid you would be quite aggrieved at the loss."

Every phrase in the tirade was so nauseatingly predictable that Mycroft barely resisted the urge to hang the phone there and then. It went without saying that now David Source was going to offer a lot, a considerable lot, for the sole purpose of leaving the country unimpeded. Mycroft pressed two fingers against his closed eyelids and decided to bring the conversation to a courteous end.

"We're wasting our time here, Mr. Source. Your observation was quite correct. We are both busy people."

"Don't leave the line, Mycroft. John Watson, wouldn't he resolve many of your problems?"

Mycroft froze, the phone clutched tightly in the suddenly cold hand. Then a harsh voice added, "Regent's Park. West entrance."

– 0 –

Mycroft was sitting at his desk in the study of his flat, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't make a single draught, instead just sitting there in quiet as he held the glass against the glowing desk lamp, watching tiny golden sparks play in the drink.

Source's plan astounded in its beauty and staggering simplicity. First, he had needed to determine a person who with a greater probability could work out the fact of a financial fraud; and without any false modesty, Mycroft could say he was the only one with his level of clearance who would notice that fact prior to Source's departure into the planned business trip outside Great Britain. The next stage was to calculate how Mycroft could be taken out of the game, and even more – do so in a way that their direction would be completely unaware of how much Mycroft was out of the game and therefore the control of his responsibility zone would not be strengthened. That was the reason for which the target wasn't Sherlock himself; the demise of a dear brother in the eyes of the direction would have been a sufficiently traumatizing factor in order to send Mr. Holmes into a temporary leave of absence to recover from his loss.

The same, though, couldn't be said about the death of "just a friend" of his dear brother. Well, Source had done his homework to perfection at the preliminary stage; for even Sherlock's close acquaintances weren't aware of the depth of his affection towards John. Source, for his part, had thoroughly calculated all consequences of the death of younger Holmes' flatmate (if only Sherlock knew that his sociopathic veneer could fool no one but merely Donovan and other idiots from Scotland Yard, then, perhaps, he wouldn't be wearing it with such a fanatic zeal).

A soporific drug, a split moment after John left the security camera's field of view, was all it had taken. Then followed the efficient escape, the explosion which naturally and effectively erased the conducted operation from the memory of all witnesses, and the subsequent falsification of the DNA tests - it really was time to stop falling for the bait as easily as that, Mycroft decided. The installation of all this had been obviously quite expensive, but the game was worth the candle all right.

The irony of the situation was that John hadn't the slightest idea that he was dead in the eyes of the outer world. He considered himself a hostage (which, in fact, he was) and honestly expected his savior in the person of Sherlock. And, according to Source's description, he awaited his rescue in rather decent conditions. Surely, the premises were rigidly isolated, but there were food, a shower, and what sounded like an electric razor. To be perfectly blunt, Mycroft wasn't interested in similar details, but as they sat on a bench in Regent's Park, Source kept talking and Mycroft kept listening, hoping to win time and figure out a loophole. However, a loophole was a tough nut to find, let alone crack.

Tilting the glass a little, Mycroft watched as the whiskey began to slowly glide against the transparent side.

Now John's life became an ideal bargaining object. Mycroft would have to remove the access ban over Source's accounts for the nearest couple of days as well as to grant him a possibility to leave the country unscathed in exchange for John's life. A twelve-digit number – and John would be back on Baker Street in no time. There were also some chances that this move wouldn't destroy Mycroft's career for good. The reopened access to the accounts and Source's departure from the country could still be ascribed to a disastrous mistake. An inadmissible mistake, but taking into consideration all the previous merits, there was a meager possibility that over the course of some time he would be able to partially regain his soon-to-be forfeited position.

Suppressing a sigh, Mycroft dragged a free hand over his face, put the whiskey glass down on the desk and extracted his phone from his pocket.

As a matter of fact, there was nothing to really ponder over, and Mycroft was well aware of it from the very moment Watson's name came up to surface. The plan was, he had to concede, a sheer elegance in its simplicity.

– 0 –

"I still don't understand why you didn't let Sherlock know I'm alive," John said, irritation seeping through, as he sat next to Mycroft on the rear seat of the car which was precipitating towards London.

During their journey Mycroft managed to explain to John all that had transpired in his absence, including the fact that he was considered dead for the last few months. And John, albeit remembering he now owed his life to the older Holmes, simply couldn't help spilling out his preoccupation onto the only person he could at the moment. Besides, it was worth noting, Mycroft was none other who was the reason, though inadvertent one, of John and Sherlock finding themselves up to neck in this shit. Again.

"John, you've demonstrated the same amount of indignation when I suggested you convey this fortunate news over the phone to your sister. Now you propose the same thing regarding Sherlock."

"I called Harry nevertheless," John countered. He made a grimace as soon as he remembered how Harry, after recovering from the throes of the happy shock, burst out shouting and accusing him of premeditated falsification of his own death. _You and that idiot of yours_, she went on and on, _you can play your freaking love games as much as you please, but don't make me a part of it! _

Alas, John could understand what his sister meant; he couldn't even formulate the real reason of what had happened and he had no alternative explanation prepared up his sleeve. So to her logical question of where the hell he was he could only mumble something as obscure as "It just happened this way". John twitched his shoulders and added, anger vibrating in his voice:

"You could've told Sherlock personally. Before coming for me."

"You see, John," Mycroft thinned his lips. "Let me put it this way: I wasn't one hundred percent certain of the outcome of this… rescue mission. And false hope… I'm afraid, false hope is not something Sherlock can handle right now."

"Oh," John uttered, averting his eyes, embarrassed.

They rode the rest of the road in silence.

As they finally arrived in London, John watched the flashing scenery of his favourite city out the window, yet his eyes remained unseeing, clouded by the haze of visions in his mind. Among the most striking ones were haphazardly cut pieces of the past, of Sherlock's resurrection from the dead. He remembered the detective's expression as he looked at John, an unusual flick of uncertainty in his eyes, a thunderstorm of emotions so powerful and unruly it was impossible to single out and classify separate feelings, it felt difficult to even pick out a common vector. Back then, emotions were ripping all of Sherlock's being apart. Probably, now John should be intrigued to see what Sherlock would be like when put in his shoes, but he wasn't intrigued in the slightest. At all.

He was scared.

He was scared to the point of cold sweat gathering on his forehead, his stomach giving painful lurches, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. What would Sherlock feel? Sherlock, who was always so self-restrained, always in control of keeping the desired front. How would he take such an emotional bomb? John hadn't the slightest doubt that their meeting would not be a tranquil greeting of something like "Oh, John, hello! You're alive, that's so lovely! I'm just about to go out; Lestrade phoned and he has a promising case. Let's go together, you'll check out the corpse."

No, John was perfectly aware that Sherlock would be swept by an emotional tsunami, akin to that of John's own. And he understood very well that the result of such tsunami would be absolutely impossible to predict. John was prepared for anything, mentally repeating to himself, as a mantra, that Sherlock would simply need time, and he would be able to handle it, and it would all be all right. Armed with these thoughts, John clenched his left hand into a fist and squeezed as hard as he could, measuring his breathing and letting his eyes roam over the familiar scenery of Baker Street they had just reached.

Slamming the door of the car behind him, John spent several seconds lingering in front of the familiar door, attempting to regain his footing. He wondered if Sherlock had felt the same way that day. Teeming with an atomic mixture of bitter-sweet mirth and unable to believe he was standing right before the door to his home, he dreaded the reaction that awaited him inside. Shaking his head and completely dismissing Mycroft who stood behind his shoulder, John unlocked the door and strode right across the hall and up the seventeen stairs, hating to put it off any longer. Without a knock, he lightly pushed the door of the living room, stepping over the all too familiar threshold.

Sherlock was on the sofa, clad in his usual 'any moment ready to rush and go' clothes and was typing furiously away at his laptop, stationed on his stomach. John watched as his friend looked up at the opened door and already opened his mouth to speak and… no word came out as he froze. John, barely remembering to breathe, awkwardly sucked in a lungful of air and swallowed loudly, not tearing his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock, as though the world stopped still, smoothly lifted himself off the sofa, heedless of the laptop which tumbled down, and stood rooted to the floor of the room, looking John squarely in the eye. John glanced at the utterly empty face, at the slightly opened mouth, at the shoulders, a bit stooped, at the arms hanging along his body like lifeless plants – and it was all it took to send him walking in three large strides towards Sherlock, who kept looking at John with unseeing, expressionless eyes. After fetching a ragged breath, John scooped the limp body of his friend into a tight embrace, suddenly realising of how much weight he had lost.

"It's me. Not a hallucination. It's really me. Alive."

John, himself hardly believing it was happening, ran his hand along Sherlock's spine, clutching at the thin fabric of his t-shirt for a brief second. Sherlock, although not returning the embrace, dropped his head onto John's shoulder, and John pressed his cheek against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to hold back oncoming tears. Only several seconds later John felt that not only Sherlock put his head on his shoulder but was also sagging against him with full weight and was slowly slipping out of the embrace, bit by bit sliding to the floor. The realisation made John's eyes flick open and he grabbed the detective more tightly as they both lowered themselves to their knees.

"Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock."

Carefully, he laid his unconscious friend down on the floor, gently supporting his shoulders and head. It was then that Mycroft popped up at his side, entirely forgotten by everyone.

"Ambulance?" His voice sounded pronouncedly calm and orderly.

"No. There's no need."

Sherlock's eyelids were fluttering already; he was just about to regain awareness.

"It's better if you leave us alone," John said, glancing up at Mycroft and trying to wordlessly convey how uncomfortable Sherlock would feel knowing there were additional witnesses of his weakness. No one should know it better than Mycroft. But the man in question pursed his lips in doubt.

"John, he could be inadequately—"

"I'm asking you, Mycroft. We'll handle it."

The older Holmes looked John in the eye and, moments later, levered himself from his knees in a graceful manner. Without waiting for the click of the locking door, John returned his full attention to Sherlock who was slowly opening his eyes. John gave him a soft smile, unable to conjure up the right words, his throat constricting.

With his eyes barely focusing, Sherlock swallowed hard and silently reached out a trembling hand to John's face. John eagerly caught it and pressed against his cheek. Sherlock's face twisted for a fraction of a second before he sat up abruptly and pulled John into a crushing hug, tucking his forehead into John's shoulder.

With his lip bit, John hugged him back and immediately sensed Sherlock's body shudder in sobs. Bringing his arms tighter around the thin frame, John cursed himself for his inability to come up with something, anything to say, and so he was simply hugging his friend, waiting out the emotional flash. A cursory, self-complacent thought swept over the back of his mind as he remembered how he handled Sherlock's return a tad better. At once, the thought made him feel disgusted with himself, made him want to give himself a sound slap in the face. Only both of his arms were full of Sherlock, Sherlock who clung to him in a death grip with such force it was almost difficult to breathe.

John tried to slightly relax his arms, however in response Sherlock all but increased the hold of his own, as though he was afraid John could vanish any second. John's heart missed a beat at the thought, and he brought Sherlock closer and tighter again, almost touching Sherlock's ear with his lips as he whispered in a semi-audible voice:

"I'm here. Alive. I won't disappear, I swear."

At length, the detective gave a strangled sob before he lifted up his head, although not relinquishing the hold he had on John. Sherlock's eyes, completely and utterly mad, swept over John's face at a crazed speed until finally resting on his eyes. John tenderly skimmed his fingers along Sherlock's cheek, wet with tears, and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. More than anything he wanted to close his eyes and relax, let himself be engulfed by the tumultuous sensation of being back home. However, he knew it wasn't over yet; they passed only the first round, and there were still questions to be answered.

Sherlock let out a noisy sigh and his arms finally slackened.

"What—" he started coarsely, his voice breaking. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat, trying to regain control over his vocal chords, but John hurried to speak up first.

"I've been held hostage all this time. Mycroft needed to be distracted from one political game, and his enemies decided to use his family against him. They didn't want to touch you, while I seemed like a perfect fit. Then my life helped them get a cross-border permit. I served as a security warrant for them to leave the country."

"Are you all right?" asked Sherlock, pulling away and taking a good look at John, his eyes almost back to normal.

"Yes— Yes."

John scrambled to his feet and, taking Sherlock by the elbow, helped him upwards before elaborating:

"Admittedly, I can't say these two months were of any benefit to my health, but it is all remediable. They needed me alive, they did." A sad smile suffused the corners of John's mouth as he placed a hand on Sherlock's forearm. "Let's sit down on the sofa."

Now that the initial shock ebbed away, Sherlock clearly felt very uncomfortable and, hiding his eyes, tried to wipe his eyes dry, hurriedly and somehow sloppily. Doing his best as to not look at his friend granting him at least the semblance of privacy, John settled on the sofa and took a good stock of the room.

"Tea?" John offered the universal remedy for discharging the strung atmosphere.

"No." Sherlock huddled on the opposite edge of the sofa and waved off the suggestion. John saw his hand still tremble noticeably. Not the best timing for tea if you have to hold the mug yourself. Hastily, Sherlock squeezed both his palms between his knees and fell silent, staring at the empty space before him. For several seconds, John watched him before he abruptly moved towards Sherlock, bringing him closer to himself with an arm around his shoulders.

"Sherlock, it's normal," John said in a gentle tone of the voice as he met a look of confusion. "I've terribly missed you, too. Terribly."

John's lips quirked in a small smile as he placed his free hand onto the detective's knee, squeezing it lightly. With relief and satisfaction, he felt Sherlock's stone-hard shoulders relax under his arm. John pulled his friend to himself closer still, hugging him with both arms, rubbing his back in circles. God, did he miss him.

Sherlock exhaled a long sigh into John's shoulder, nuzzled against it with his forehead before raising his arms and responding to the embrace, gripping John tightly, yet this time without convulsive movements.

"You grew thin," the detective murmured.

"So did you. But it's nothing," John let out a small snort. "Mrs. Hudson will quickly amend the situation." Then, suddenly, John straightened, pulling away. "Oh god, Mrs. Hudson! Is she— is she all right?"

Sherlock nodded nimbly, a tiny half-smile sneaking onto his lips.

"Yes. For the most part. She was awfully worried, of course."

Sherlock's shoulders gave a slight twitch as though he was swept by a freezing wind, and then he looked away. John pretended he didn't notice anything.

"Where is she now?"

"Went to her sister this very morning. The woman is in the hospital, heart problems as far as I gathered. She was going to return tomorrow in case everything turns out fine."

All of a sudden, a warm smile crept into Sherlock's face. "Our Mrs. Hudson is a strong woman, and if you think our habit of alternately burying each other will bring her to her grave, you're underestimating her. Care and concern for someone help overcome grief, and she was obviously afraid I might do something stupid."

Sherlock tried to say it with a haughty sniff, but it came out somewhat unconvincing. John sat with his eyes downcast as the detective made a grimace and thinned his lips.

In order to cut off the awkward silence which had settled in, John spoke up, slapping his knee with an exaggerated enthusiasm.

"I bet our fridge looks like a desert save for some disgusting substratum for cultivating mould. Want to order a take-out?"

For several seconds Sherlock just looked at John with suspiciously glistening eyes. He blinked as though he was blinking away a ghost before hurrying to avert his eyes as he reached for the phone.

"I'll do it. I doubt your preferences have changed."

John smirked and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. He let his hand rest there a little longer than he usually would.

"No, they haven't. Besides, right now I'd agree to absolutely anything," he said, getting to his feet and then heading for the kitchen.

"Is there anything which might constitute a health hazard I should be aware of?" John inquired, his voice louder.

"No." The response made John smirk again as he arched his eyebrows in disbelief. "I haven't done any experiments of late. Got a handful of investigations going, simply out of time."

John put the kettle on and peeked from the kitchen.

"Going to tell?"

Sherlock just finished the call after placing an order. He glanced up and smiled, as though temporarily suspended in space, as his eyes fastened on John in the kitchen doorway. The latter had to make a wilful effort to keep a nonchalant expression on his face. Sherlock bore a striking resemblance to John himself in the mirrored situation. Did he look the same? This unbelieving, happy, and slightly childish expression; this gaze of a man whose cherished and absolutely unreal dream just came true, a dream which stood right in front him, alive and breathing.

John resisted an acute urge to come up at once and hug Sherlock again. He remembered all too well how he himself wanted to touch his 'resurrected' friend each and every minute, to make sure it wasn't merely a dream. Although, in John's case it wasn't on the very first evening, it was afterwards, and Sherlock afterwards wouldn't permit himself such an emotional indulgence; at the moment he was simply still under the charm of the first shock, not quite recovered from the pure, radiating joy, overt and loose. To be more precise, it wasn't like he permitted himself anything, he was just being heedless of his state, incapable of monitoring his emotional display and keeping it under strict rein. A kettle made a sound in the kitchen, and the magic of the moment dissipated. Sherlock gave a start, then coughed and quickly looked away.

While brewing tea John noticed that experiments weren't Sherlock's first priority of late indeed, yet the absence of them didn't take any significant impact on the state of the kitchen. Beakers, phials and the microscope all stood on their respective places, encumbering the table; a rather thick layer of dust was the only difference worth noting. Besides, all liquid in the mixtures long since evaporated; the walls of the beakers bore a film of dried chemical residues.

All of it left an unpleasant sense of abandonment, and John involuntarily scrunched up his face when his glance stopped at his friend's chemical lab. Hopefully, Mrs. Hudson had disposed of those experiments which were liable to rot or turn into a mould paradise. Deciding to cut his own nerves some slack, John didn't dare approach the fridge. He picked up two mugs, sat them down on a tray, then rummaged in the cupboard and found a box of biscuits before shuffling back to the living room.

That day, the dinner conspicuously lacked its usual ease. For a start, Sherlock turned out to have ordered food only for John, contenting himself with a mugful of cold tea and biscuits. Persuasions were to no avail, and John decided not to press the point, reckoning that after such an emotional outburst Sherlock could indeed be far from feeling famished.

When the dinner was finished with, John set aside empty containers.

"Well, I think I'm calling it a day," he said, a shy smile playing about his lips as he shrugged. "The day wasn't an easy one."

Sherlock favoured it with only a nod, draining his even colder tea and avoiding to meet his friend's eyes.

"Goodnight, John."

The detective placed an empty mug on the coffee table. He seemed to have regained his composure and now held himself in a way as though it was one of the usual evenings without cases and investigations.

"By the way," he went on. "Mrs. Hudson put your things away in the boxes, but the sheets and covers are still in the drawer, on their place."

As Sherlock spoke, his voice remained even as if he was delivering a report on an issue of absolutely no relevance. John couldn't boast of having the same kind of self-mastery and therefore froze, his foot suspended over the step. His brain flashed with a memory of himself, an image of him standing in front of the boxes full of Sherlock's things. A shudder twitched John's shoulders as he attempted to shake off the persistent memories from his head. John decisively stepped on the staircase, but from a corner of his eyes he stealthily spied on his friend. Sherlock had already flung his legs onto the sofa and now was sprawled there with his nose buried in his phone as he meticulously studied something on the screen.

Up in his bedroom John smiled to himself, genuinely glad of how fast Sherlock managed to pull himself together. A mere couple of hours, and the living room already carried its old habitual flair with tranquil and self-composed Sherlock Holmes yet again.

However, some two hours later John wasn't so sure of his previous assumption anymore.

John woke up as though from a push and immediately bolted up straight in bed. Over the first few seconds, he couldn't quite find his bearings. Heaving a deep sigh and exhaling smoothly, John shook his head and took a good stock of the room, imbibing his surroundings dimly lit by a twilight glow and making sure he was indeed home, not trapped in a windowless empty room. By the end of his inspection, John stumbled upon a slightly embarrassed pair of eyes from the floor.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's timid expression rapidly transformed into an annoyed one. John would have given a standing ovation to applaud Sherlock's thespian talents, were he not still in a half-slumbered haze.

"Who else," his friend mumbled in a cross voice as if sitting on the floor next to your flatmate's bed was the most natural nocturnal pastime ever.

"You shouted in your sleep," Sherlock continued. "I wanted to check on you, see if everything was okay. I sat down next to the bed and thought of waking you up, but you were up on your own almost at once."

With these words, Sherlock leapt to his feet in one deft movement, clearly intent on leaving his flatmate's bedroom. Only his numbed leg didn't let him manoeuvre himself out with desired promptness and careless grace. Anyone would have pins and needles in their leg after sitting motionless for several minutes. John quickly caught Sherlock's forearm, keeping him in place.

"You—"

_Shit,_ thought John. He hadn't the foggiest idea what he was about to say, and the level of awkwardness increased exponentially with each passing second. So he decided to hell with the formalities and met Sherlock's eyes.

"Me too, you know. When you came back, I sometimes checked on you at night. Just to make sure your return wasn't a dream. And don't tell me you didn't know."

Sherlock's strained shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit, and a corner of his mouth flickered upwards. John shrugged and smiled in response.

"Well. So—"

He thought it was time to move from awkwardly sounding words to actions and budged to the other edge of the bed.

"Just get your own pillow and covers. So that it's not— not too much."

Sherlock snorted.

"Oh, John, you're a cornucopia of eloquence."

Sherlock shook his head and left the room, trying not to limp too much on his numbed leg.

John let out a muffled groan and plopped back onto his pillow, covering his eyes with an elbow and feeling like a total… He didn't have time to come up with a proper insult for himself. As he was going through the options (idiot, bastard, heartless old fool, inarticulate imbecile) he heard footsteps on the staircase once more. He moved his palm away from his face and saw the detective appear on the doorstep of his bedroom, a pillow and a cover clutched in his hands.

Without uttering a single word, Sherlock threw his pillow next to John's and settled on the free half of the bed, on the side, not facing his friend.

John smiled, perfectly aware that Sherlock would hear the smile in his voice.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Upon waking up in the morning, John didn't find Sherlock in his bed. He stretched his limbs lazily, anticipating a new day with a smile on his face. Today he was going to pay a visit to Harry, and as he didn't plan to drag it out, the rest of the day was free. Yesterday John didn't even ask if Sherlock had any case on his hands and therefore had no idea whether they were going to Scotland Yard today or not. Admittedly, he couldn't wait to meet his old friends and see their reaction to his resurrection.

John stretched once more, enjoying himself and wondering if Sherlock had similar thoughts back then. Although, it would be no surprise if the bloke had completely ignored this pleasant moment of getting back into the world of the living. John smirked and finally scrambled out of bed. While getting dressed, he made up his mind that he would bring the good news to his friends and acquaintances in person. By no means was it an egoistic desire to catch some fun; he was going to do it like that out of caring for people. After all, it wasn't the information to be delivered by a text message.

Making his way downstairs and taking his time about it, John saw Sherlock already fully dressed and ready to go.

"Hey, already leaving?" John asked rhetorically, suppressing a yawn.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look, all his demeanour demonstrating his utmost disdain for John's perpetual inclination to state the obvious. John only smirked at the familiarity of the scene.

"Case?"

Sherlock waved his hand noncommittally and scooped his scarf off the chair.

"Sort of. Be back in a few hours. Got any plans?"

John scratched his eyebrow watching the detective wrap his scarf around his neck in his characteristic fashion.

"I'm going to see Harry. I'm afraid that until she sees me with her own eyes she won't fully believe I'm alive. Besides, she's in London right now."

Sherlock gave him a silent nod - either in lieu of a goodbye or in lieu of agreeing with John's decision John didn't understand - and then slipped out.

With an involuntary smile tugging at the side of his mouth, John looked in his wake before heading to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. As soon as he got there, he grudgingly realised that not only did his flatmate not have any breakfast, but also didn't even drink any tea. Putting the kettle on to boil, John picked up the detective's mug in his hands, meaning to stow it away in the cupboard. He faltered for a half second, scrutinising the familiar thing so closely associated with home. It was only due to his sentimental feelings that John noticed it – a film of odd sediment on the sides of the mug.

Knitting his eyebrows, John ran a finger along the enamel and was surprised to discover a whitish, glittering, fine-dispersed powder left on his fingertip. Uncomprehending, John studied his finger. Sherlock drank from this very mug just yesterday. He never used it for experiments. By any means. John pensively rubbed the powder between his fingers before, at length, deciding to run the risk of conducting an organoleptic expertise and he licked the sediment with a tip of his tongue. Disgusted at once, he spewed it out into the sink. The powder turned out to be commonplace soda. John looked at the mug with closer attention. The surface was absolutely dry, which meant that Sherlock didn't use it in the morning. Why would he need to drink soda solution in the heart of the night?

John always enjoyed his friend's deductive epiphanies, and it was a pity he couldn't see himself from the side right now. Because right at the moment when pieces of the diagnostic puzzle fell into place in his head - Sherlock didn't eat his favourite spicy food yesterday evening, he drank cold tea which he normally hated, he treated himself with soda at night, and finally he rushed somewhere in the morning without even drinking tea, although there were no urgent or pressing matters, at least there weren't if Sherlock's yesterday behaviour was anything to go by – at that moment John was surprisingly alike Sherlock who just found a key to a complicated case.

Gastroduodenitis. He finally got himself into a mess with all his "body is just transport" and "I can eat after I'm done with the case" talks. Although, Sherlock who rushed to a doctor for an examination… Perplexed, John shook his head because the only fact that Sherlock went in search for medical help out of his own accord didn't sit well with his character and seemed like a very far-fetched and unlikely assumption. John nervously chewed at his lip. What if Sherlock's leanness and pallor were a consequence of not only his feelings after his friend's death, but also a consequence of a diagnosis more serious than gastroduodenitis? A diagnosis which was directly associated not with diet mistakes, but with these same feelings?

Entirely forgetting his breakfast, John briskly strode into the living room, grabbed his temporary phone from the coffee table, a phone which was kindly supplied by Mycroft, and hastily dialed Sherlock's number. The detective answered after a few beep sounds.

"Yes, John?"

John swallowed the introduction part he had prepared - he didn't expect Sherlock to file his new telephone number into his memory as fast as that - and decided to forgo the small talk.

"Name of the clinic you're in right now."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by a cold:

"What makes you think I need any company?"

Well, of course, when finding himself in an unfamiliar and frightening situation the consulting bastard would prefer being alone, would prefer it the easy way. _Not this time, Sherlock._

"I didn't ask if you do. I asked you the name of the clinic."

Charged silence stretched out in the air for several seconds, and John could physically feel Sherlock struggle with an urge to hang up the phone. However, there came a sharp answer.

"Barts," followed by short beeps. John curtly nodded to himself and hurried to get ready, breakfast no longer on his mind.

– 0 –

The hospital churned with its customary daily activity, and the atmosphere affected John the way it did all other doctors; it was strangely soothing. It allowed one's self to slightly abstract from the situation and created a subconscious feeling that he was there just for clinic hours. However, the feeling evaporated as soon as he reached the department of functional diagnostics and saw Sherlock sitting in the hall on a plastic chair, clad in a blue hospital robe instead of his usual neat shirt and foppish jacket.

As Sherlock looked up at him, John immediately wanted to give himself a slap. Now he sincerely marvelled at his inability to recognise the illness sitting in his friend's features, especially at that moment when Sherlock wasn't shielded by his habitual armour of superiority. Unhealthy pallor, black circles under his eyes, and deepened wrinkles were all striking.

John shuddered unconsciously. Under Sherlock's glowering eyes, he came closer and slipped into the adjacent seat.

"Abdominal CT scan came back normal. I'm waiting for gastroscopy."

John nodded, wordlessly. His attention was drawn by Sherlock's arms, bare up to his elbows. There was a light chill in the hall, and the detective's skin was covered in goose bumps, hair standing on end. John had to conjure all his willpower to resist an all-compassing urge to hug his friend by the shoulders and bring him closer.

"How long do you have it?" he asked quietly instead.

Sherlock let out a huff.

"What 'it'? Doctor, if you're collecting anamnesis data from all your patients like that—"

John didn't let Sherlock finish his caustic remark. He laid his palm on the detective's cold forearm and tenderly stroked the length from his elbow to wrist. Sherlock startled and abruptly fell silent, then, after a pause, he looked at John out of the corner of his eye, twitching his shoulder in an indistinct gesture.

"A couple of weeks, I suppose. I lost track of time." Sherlock smirked with one side of his mouth before adding, "You were right. I should consider healthier food choices."

John glanced at his friend and nodded, silently accepting Sherlock's wish to chalk his ill-being up to that particular reason. A nurse appeared in front of them, interrupting the heavy silence that had settled for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes, come in."

Sherlock got to his feet, and John stood up as well. The nurse sent him a questioning look.

"Doctor Watson would like to be present at the procedure," Sherlock announced suddenly, much to John's surprise.

"If a patient expresses such a wish, there's no problem. This is not a surgery." The nurse looked at John, a tad embarrassed. "The procedure is quite unpleasant, but since you're a doctor yourself you should be well aware of that already."

John promptly nodded and turned to Sherlock with a grateful smile. The detective didn't spare him a glance and entered the room.

An endoscopist offered them a dry greeting and waved John towards a chair. Sherlock was seated on a bed next to the desk equipped with machines and a monitor, while the doctor quickly flipped through the accompanying papers, briefly halting at a long descriptive text (probably Sherlock's medical history, John figured). As soon as the endoscopist was done with that, he ascertained the absence of predisposition to allergic reactions, which was the standard protocol.

Stepping closer to Sherlock, the nurse sprinkled his throat with an anaesthetic and explained what position he was supposed to adopt and how he was to behave during the procedure.

John sat quietly on his chair and watched the preparations, simultaneously trying to convince himself that it was a routine procedure after which Sherlock would be informed of a diagnosis and prescribed a treatment.

Alas, emotions weren't listening to the voice of reason, and his heart was about to implode in his ribcage, his palms were clammy. In his mind, John understood that the examination was necessary, but all his being was beset by a storm of sympathy for a close person who was about to undergo an extremely unpleasant ordeal. Besides, John was childishly afraid to hear the impending verdict, even though he was about ninety percent sure of the diagnosis.

Yet, all his emotions and feelings were not important right now; the only significant thing was Sherlock lying on the hospital bed. John hoisted an expression of unwavering certainty and tried to catch his friend's glance. However, Sherlock wasn't looking at him, instead watching as the endoscopist was getting ready for an examination. At the sight of Sherlock being so intensely interested in the preparation, John couldn't help a smile, relaxing just ever so slightly, much to his own surprise.

The endoscopist approached Sherlock and blocked his face from John's field of vision. The examination started, and there wasn't any more time left for preoccupation as John's gaze fixed on the monitor. The upper parts looked normal; thickened and hyperemic folds of the abdominal mucous membrane made John's face cringe somewhat, but at present gastritis wasn't a cause for worry. However, when the endoscope entered the duodenal bulb, a cold shiver ran the ladder of John's spine. He immediately rose to his feet.

The presence itself of an ulcer was to be expected, although John hoped against all hopes for his own diagnostic mistake. Worst of all, there were evident signs of bleeding, and as soon as the doctor moved the endoscope, changing the view angle, John clearly saw the damaged vessel itself.

The vessel was large, and badly thrombosed. Staring at the screen with his eyes wide open, with a chilly sliver of dread crawling up his back, John realised that this morning he could've woken up to discover Sherlock's cold corpse next to himself.

Meanwhile, the endoscopist went on with his proceedings; he administered a number of medications into the area of the ulcer and coagulated the vessel. John, his fists clenched so tightly his nails were leaving crescents on his palms, silently followed the procedure.

When all was over and the doctor extracted the endoscope, the nurse helped Sherlock sit up; he was coughing, pressing his hand to his mouth, a piece of gauze clutched in it. John forced himself to look away from his friend's reddened face and turned to the endoscopist.

"Has he had his blood work done yet?"

"Of course," he nodded, bringing a screen shot of the damaged area of the mucous membrane onto the monitor and starting to print. "Hemoglobin is 74 g/L."

For a split second John's vision darkened, but he quickly pulled himself together. Sherlock was alive. Here he was, alive, still coughing and breathing rapidly, awkwardly getting up to his feet and wiping his eyes that had watered on reflex. John inhaled deeply and for a moment averted his eyes from Sherlock. Only when he took his emotions back under his own control, he bit his lip and turned to his friend again. Supporting him by an elbow, John helped Sherlock to his feet.

"John, I arrived here with this hemoglobin," Sherlock growled in a hoarse voice, breaking free out of John's grasp. "Which means I'm probably quite capable of reaching the hall on my own."

John knew better than to argue and let Sherlock go ahead; the detective swayed a bit. In the hall, they lowered themselves onto the same chairs, and John asked in a quiet voice:

"Any clothes you might need? I mean apart from the usual list of hospital things."

Sherlock turned to him questioningly. John frowned, rather sternly. With all the compassion he felt towards his friend, John wasn't in the proper state to endure childish bickering and was by no means intent on even hearing out Sherlock's unhealthy logic of why he didn't need to be hospitalised.

"I shouldn't have to explain it to you, Sherlock," John began, stern and straightforward. "This night you were bleeding so much your hemoglobin dropped to a critical level. Such a rapid drop of hemoglobin—" John found himself unable to finish his thought and just shook his head, crestfallen.

"Not this night," Sherlock answered quietly. He broke his gaze away and was now staring at the opposite wall. "I told you it started several weeks ago. It wasn't a fast drop, don't worry so much."

At this, John straightened in his chair and his eyes snapped up at Sherlock in shock.

"You mean you knew you've had the signs of gastrointestinal bleeding for several weeks now, but you ignored them entirely and went to see a doctor only today?"

John spoke in a voice barely above a whisper; however, his whitened knuckles, clenching the armrests of the chair, and his black eyes with dilated pupils spoke volumes for themselves.

"Do you even realise that if I was to return some two or three days later, I would be headed straight to your funeral!"

With each spoken word John's voice gained in volume, so by the end of the sentence he was practically shouting. Sherlock startled and turned to him abruptly, his eyes glowering.

"Well, how could I know you were alive?"

A word spoken. Perhaps, Sherlock would give a lot to take back what he just said in the heat of the moment. But his question hung in mid-air, and the two friends now were sitting in their chairs, tense and straightened, glaring at each other with precipitously vanishing anger which segued into mutually awkward embarrassment.

John coughed and was the first to look away, all of a sudden displaying an unusual interest in his shoelaces.

"All right," he said in a raucous voice, wetting his dry lips. "I'm sorry. You mustn't worry right now."

He coughed once more, clearing his throat, and decided to return to the practical questions, wishing to smooth out the awkwardness of the situation after Sherlock's question. "You know, it really would be much better for you to get hospitalised. You will be monitored, and so forth."

"I have a doctor at home," Sherlock countered, this time without a zealous attitude. Then he shrugged, "Besides, what difference does it make where to take pills and follow the diet?"

John looked up at him and smiled.

"Keep in mind that I'm not going to cut you any slack. You will follow the prescriptions to the letter. You need to let it all thoroughly heal, because otherwise I'll have to forever give up on the take-away junk food, and I'm not ready for that at all."

"Deal," Sherlock said in a quiet voice and extended his hand to John. John's smile widened and he firmly shook Sherlock's hand.

– 0 –

As soon as Sherlock signed all the papers confirming his refusal to be hospitalised, he was given the recipes and led into the examination room to receive the necessary medications.

From the corner of the room, John calmly watched Sherlock being hooked up to an IV, and as the nurse left them alone, he dragged a plastic chair over to his friend's bed and perched by his side.

"Well," he offered a small smile and placed his hand on the bed next to Sherlock's. "All of this," he nodded to the phials which waited their turn, "will take at least an hour and a half. We're running short on the dietetic food in the form of porridges, so I think I'll have to make a grocery run—"

The reciprocal smile on Sherlock's face vanished at once as he jerked forwards to snatch John by his forearm.

"No," Sherlock said in a hoarse yet strong voice. Then, as if to seem more persuasive, he shook his head hard and gripped John's arm tighter like he feared John would wriggle free of his hold and escape.

"But why— Oh." John had a sudden epiphany on the nature of this phobic gesture. "I'm sorry."

With his free hand, John lightly pressed on Sherlock's chest, making him lie back down. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. We'll go together as soon as we're done here."

Sherlock nodded, though still tensely, avoiding his gaze. John worked his throat, embarrassed, glancing at Sherlock's fingers that still clasped his forearm.

"You know, it took me a long time before I could even consider the thought of leaving you in Barts on your own. I knew it was stupid, but I couldn't anyway."

Sherlock nodded again and looked up at John.

"Thank you," he said in a suddenly quiet voice. "I'm not sure I would be able to forgive myself, were I in your place. I would understand, but I doubt I'd forgive and let back in."

John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat before silently nodding. He had no idea what he could answer in response to these simple and sincere words. This unexpected gratitude covered for all the absent and insufficient apologies after the detective's triumphant return. Sherlock, however, wasn't expecting any reply as he gave John a small smile, for several seconds locking his eyes with John's before shutting them wearily.

"Get some sleep," John said, doing his utmost to not let the sympathy that had come over him seep into his voice, "You need to rest."

A moment later, he covered Sherlock's wrist with his hand, slightly squeezing the detective's cold fingers.

"I'll stay here with you, I promise. Then we'll go home together."

– 0 –

John tasted the cooling porridge and twisted his face. Even when hot, the porridge wasn't conspicuous by its gustatory qualities, much less when it was cooled to the room temperature. Now it lost all its resemblance to an edible substance and looked more like wheat paste. John drew a deep sigh and called out for Sherlock, who sat on the couch with his attention affixed to his laptop.

"Come here to eat. The porridge is cooled down enough."

Sherlock appeared in the doorway and heaved a theatrical sigh as his eyes zeroed into the plateful of porridge on the table. Resigned, he plonked down on a chair. After the first spoon of porridge, he looked up at John, wearing a most lugubrious expression.

"You told me to inform you of any appearing symptoms, so here I am, informing you, that I'm going to be sick any moment now."

Busy with the preparation of toasts, John hemmed and glanced over at Sherlock.

"Regard this as an experiment."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in question, and John elaborated:

"Usually the need to adhere to the strict diet and crushed lukewarm food is exhausted in a matter of two to four days. Let's see how much time your body will require."

With a doom-laden groan, Sherlock stowed the second spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

"Take your time and chew thoroughly," John admonished him.

"What's there to even chew on?" Sherlock asked with sincere exasperation, nearly forgetting to swallow.

"Well, in that case thoroughly mix it with your saliva if that's the precision you're going for," John shrugged, picked up his mugful of tea and plateful of toasts and seated himself in front of Sherlock. "Here we go, the scent of the usual food should somewhat simplify your task."

"As well as serve as a source of envy," Sherlock mumbled, scooping another spoonful of porridge and watching with disgust as the sticky substance dripped back down into the plate.

"Don't play with food," John grinned.

"Yes, mom," Sherlock said, looking up at him with laughter in his eyes as he shoved the porridge in his mouth. "Aren't you afraid that after this kind of nutrition I'm soon going to start demanding a dummy and a bedtime fairytale story?"

"Right, about that." John averted his eyes and shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "You do realise that you can't be left alone at night till the danger of bleeding is completely over?"

Sherlock put aside his spoon and reclined in his seat.

"Your bedroom or mine?" he murmured in a sexual undertone, an amused arch to his brow.

"You prat." John ran a hand across his eyes and fought the urge to hurl a plate into Sherlock's laughing face. "First wipe the porridge off your mouth before you start acting as a character from Nine And A Half Weeks."

"You wounded me in my very heart, John," Sherlock looked at him, a tragic mien on his face. Then he couldn't help it and burst out laughing again.

– 0 –

They were washing dishes when a bell rang out from downstairs.

"I'll get it," said John, handing the kitchen towel over to Sherlock before leaving without a second thought.

If John had glanced back over his shoulder, he would have seen Sherlock watch him go with an odd smile on his lips. When John disappeared from view, Sherlock put aside the plate he was holding, switched off the tap and followed his friend. He wasn't going to miss it for the world.

When John opened the door, for the first several seconds he couldn't quite fathom why Lestrade's eyes were so widened and why his jaw dropped so low. With all the emotional storm John had gone through over the day, not only did he completely forget about his plans to make his 'resurrection' known, but the fact itself of him being dead utterly slipped his mind.

"Oh my f— god!" Lestrade exclaimed, and, basically, John agreed with him entirely. All that had happened was in fact 'Oh my f— god!' especially considering what it had almost led to.

"Does it run in the family?" the DI asked sarcastically as soon as he regained the power of not obscene speech.

"Bugger off!" John exclaimed, indignant.

"You bugger off!" Lestrade snarled and pulled John into a rib-crushing embrace.

There came a brief clapping of hands from downstairs; Sherlock stood in the middle of the stairs, looking in turn at John and Lestrade.

"Oh, do keep talking, please," he sniffed mirthfully. "I'm positively delighted with your choice of epithets for expressing your joy. By all means, this is the most wonderful lesson of acceptable social behaviour I have ever received in all of my life."

"Shut up!" they snapped at him in unison, as if on cue, then exchanged looks and burst out laughing.

"No, you've just got to explain all this shit to me." Leaning against the wall, Lestrade was wiping laugh tears from his eyes. "What the hell was that?"

"Sorry." John twitched his shoulder and glanced at Sherlock who was suddenly serious. "But I can't really explain anything. I'm just alive, that's all."

"Oh, even like that," said Lestrade, grinning, and patted John on the shoulder again, as though he still wasn't entirely sure that John was real. "Well than, I'm glad enough that you're alive."

A beaming smile wreathed John's face, and Lestrade nodded in Sherlock's direction before adding, "Looks like he is, too."

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded rather gravely, then stepped a few stairs down. "Inspector, you have a case?"

Lestrade shook his head and smirked.

"It can definitely wait till tomorrow. I had no idea I'd stumble upon such news," he said, waving his arm between Sherlock and John. "I think I'd better leave you two—"

"Greg," John tilted his head to one side, reproachfully, however Sherlock didn't let him finish.

"Inspector, we would have invited you to come in, but I'm afraid all we have to offer is milk-free instant porridge."

"Sherlock." John didn't even have to change his facial expression; he simply looked from one to another. But the detective just shrugged his shoulders, innocent as ever.

"What? It's true."

"All right," Greg decided to take matters in his hands. "You owe me a beer, John, but let's postpone it till later. I'm really happy as hell." He gave him another tight hug. "It doesn't matter now who did what to make it all be over, but I'm grateful it's all right now anyway."

John briefly nodded and shook hands with the Inspector before the latter left. As John was closing the door behind him, he watched as Greg strode to his car, shaking his head minutely and grinning in disbelief.

After returning back to the living room, John saw Sherlock carefully place his hand around the epigastric area of his stomach as he seated himself on the couch. However, catching John's eye, Sherlock removed his hand immediately. He lingered for several seconds before digging into the pocket of his trousers for his phone.

"Look," John started, a bit embarrassingly, jutting out a thoughtful lower lip. "I've just realised that I haven't thanked Mycroft properly, and that we most definitely should do it."

"Perhaps," Sherlock mumbled, buried in his phone. A moment later, he added, "I'm even prepared to be more patient about these family visits and about—" He waved his hand casually in the air, "all other things. You can pass this information onto him."

John smirked and shook his head.

"I won't. You'll pass it on yourself."

Sherlock sent him a curt glance and snorted. Then he closed the Internet search he had opened in his phone and instead pressed "2" on the speed dial before bringing the mobile closer to his ear. Holding back a smile, John sat down on his chair, anticipating a warm family conversation to be delivered by the Holmes brothers.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began in a sharp tone when the call was answered. "I wanted— Well, thank you. And from John as well. I hope that the incurred problems won't be fatal."

He made a short pause and sighed, as though he was about to dive underwater, then continued:

"John would like to thank you in person, so when you have a moment to spare we'd be glad to see you over."

After Mycroft's answer Sherlock nodded and said goodbye before hanging up.

"See," John couldn't help a jibe. "It was even simpler than going to a dentist."

Sherlock shot a sizzling glare at him, but didn't say anything.

When it was time to have dinner, they decided to arrange it in front of the TV in the living room. Sherlock took his plateful of tepid porridge and started to click on the remote, half-heartedly.

"There's something good about this filth, after all. Don't have to worry it'll get cold." He smirked and changed the channel again. "Oh, look, there's this TV show you liked before— well."

John glanced at the TV, certain that Sherlock wouldn't waste space on his hard drive to record something as screamingly trivial as that, but a moment later recognised faces of the familiar characters.

"Indeed. Never thought you'd remember," John said. Sherlock cast him a surreptitious glance, but remained silent. "But I suppose since it's been a while I won't be able to follow the plot."

"Oh, come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What plot? Nothing ever happens anyway."

"No, Sherlock, it's a detective TV show, not some soap opera."

At that, Sherlock just grimaced in disdain, and John, looking at the so much familiar expression almost with tenderness, added in a peace-offering voice:

"But it's still worth a try." And he moved to sit on the couch.

Five minutes into the movie, and John was indeed captured by the plot, barely noticing as Sherlock leaned forwards to put an empty plate on the coffee table. That was also the reason he missed another development of events when Sherlock budged slightly on the couch, settling in a way that their shoulders almost touched.

John would have kept not noticing that, had it not been for his dozing-off friend who keeled over to one side, his shoulder bumping against John's. Almost imperceptibly, John startled and looked over from the TV at Sherlock. But everything was all right; Sherlock was just sleeping, his head hung down so low so that his chin was almost touching his chest.

It made John wince as a surge of compassion came over him. Of course, all that Sherlock had gone through over these two months, his illness, and the today itself couldn't but exhaust his strength. And John, gingerly sliding his arm under Sherlock's shoulders, carefully pulled his pliant body toward himself, back against chest. Sherlock fidgeted and murmured something in his sleep.

John leaned to his ear and whispered in a soft voice:

"Shh, go back to sleep, it's all right."

John used the detective's half-awakening to his advantage to settle more comfortably with him on the couch. He placed his friend's body between the back of the couch and himself, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist.

Lightly blowing the black curls out of his nose, John warmly smiled at Sherlock's face, illuminated by the blue light from the TV. Thank god, everything was all right in the end. A week from now, and Sherlock would regain his strength, and their life would be back into its customary bumpy groove. Again there would be middle-of-the-night calls from Lestrade, and violin concerts at five A.M., and bickering over yet another experiment, and fits of destructive tedium – and all of it would be the life they both got so much used to.

And it would be the life John could never and would never want to give up.

FIN


End file.
